The Mysterious Mr Pond
by DSaint
Summary: Who is the old man who moved in down the street from Craig and Sophie Owens? Why does he know so much about ancient Rome; and the Doctor, the Owens' old friend? What is the plot that he and Alfie Owens are getting wrapped up in? And will Alfie end up grounded again? And why are we asking so many questions?
1. Part I: The Boy Formerly Known As

**Author's Note: While I have not abandoned "How We Spent Our Holidays"-I have another chapter or two to go-I came up with an idea I had to run with. So, without further ado...**

**Author's Note 09/17/12: I changed "next door" to "down the street." I decided I wanted a little more distance between the houses.**

* * *

**Part I: The Boy Formerly Known as "Stormageddon, Dark-Lord-of-All"**

* * *

"Somebody just moved in down the street," Sophie Owens said. "Perhaps they'll have a son or daughter your age." The slender woman set a pair of plates on the table.

"So I can stare at them through the window?" Alfie Owens asked. The thirteen-year-old's face brightened. "Or am I not grounded, anymore?"

"Oh, you're grounded." Sophie handed him a crisp bag, which he put on the table. "You're just lucky it isn't for life." She retrieved a pair of aluminum cans from the fridge.

"You write one application to remote-hack digital road signs with your cellular," Alfie muttered.

"Yes," Sophie agreed. She handed him a napkin and sat at the table next to him.

"It was a public service, mum," Alfie said, "to warn people of alien invaders ahead."

"Yes," Sophie agreed. "And then, somebody called it in and UNIT mobilized on the neighborhood."

Alfie grinned. "With guns and everything. That was brilliant!"

Sophie sighed. "Eat your sandwich." She picked up her own. "You're just lucky that nice Martha Jones convinced them not to throw you in a cell and lose the key. She only did it because she found out we know the Doctor."

"I don't," Alfie said, "I've never met him." He took a bite of sandwich. His face fell and he swallowed hard. "Aw, mum, no, veg sammy?" He dropped the sandwich on his plate and caught up the bag of crisps. "And veg crisps? Really?" He released the bag, which Sophie reached for.

"Yes, veg, it's good for us."

Alfie cast a desperate look at the aluminum can. He picked it up and gave the label an intent look, then popped the top and took a long drink. He sighed. "Ah, Crim-Cola, you're my only friend…"

Sophie rolled her eyes. "God forbid I should try to get you to eat healthy. Now, eat."

"Yes, mum," Alfie said with a sigh.

"I'm just saying," Sophie said around her sandwich, "that I would really love you to get through secondary without an ASBO."

Alfie set his sandwich back down and scooted his chair closer to his mother's. She gave him a suspicious look. "I'm sorry, mum," he said. He stared at her with wide, sad eyes.

"Here it comes," Sophie muttered.

He laid his head on her shoulder. "I don't mean to act up," he said. He sniffed. "I just… I just miss dad… so much."

"I could happily have passed over the day you learned to make tears on demand," Sophie said. She took a savage bite of her sandwich.

"It works wonders on uni girls," Alfie said in the same sorrowful voice.

"You realize your dad has been at his business conference for all of two days, yes? And he'll be back from Lanzarote tomorrow."

"It seems so long," Alfie said. Tears welled up in his eyes.

"Oh, God," Sophie said, "go." She pointed in the general direction of outside. "Go, before I start to regret giving birth." Alfie's chair clattered back as he jumped to his feet with a cheer. He was halfway to the door when Sophie's shout of, "Chair!" caused him to dash back and straighten his erstwhile seat at the table.

He dashed back to the door and paused. With a grin, he said, "You don't need health food, mum; you're as pretty as ever."

She pointed. "Outside."

Alfie ran.


	2. Part II: Walking the Walk

**Author's Note: "How We Spent Our Holidays" is done; and here's the second part of Stormy's adventure...**

**Author's Note 09/17/12: Stung by criticism that chapter 2 end abruptly, or is "pointless," our intrepid writer redrafts the entire chapter and replaces it. Well, I reckon that's what I get for writing the original chapter 2 at 3am when I couldn't sleep. Hopefully, this is much improved.**

* * *

**Part II: Walking the Walk**

* * *

"Oy, Alfie!"

Alfie glanced in the direction of the shout. He grinned as the heavy-set boy who trotted toward him. "Wotcher, Gare?"

Gareth shrugged. He was very much Alfie's counter, being stout and round-faced where the other boy was slender, with his mother's features. Gareth was blond, where Alfie had his father's medium brown hair.

They exchanged an elaborate handshake of the sort so beloved by teenage boys. "Did you get sprung," Gareth asked, "or go on the lam?"

"Did I what?" Alfie asked, incredulous.

"Did you get let out or did you run away?"

"You have to quit watching those old gangster movies," Alfie said. "Naw, mum got tired of me for some reason and chased me off."

"Were you doing shenanigans?" Gareth asked.

"There were no shenanigans," Alfie said. "Maybe some…"

"Hijinks?"

"Naw, more like… minor annoyances. Nothing major."

"Was on my way to the 7-Eleven when I saw you standing there like a pillock. Want to go down with me?"

"Sure." They turned and started down the pavement. "Mum says someone moved in down the street," Alfie said. "You know anything about them?"

Gareth shook his head. "No. Talked to Phil the Lip, earlier, though. He said it was some old man."

"Hm." Alfie said, "No kids, then."

"Doesn't sound like it. Lip said it's just that one old fellow, pensioner or something."

"Too bad."

"Yeah," Gareth said, "since Lip's older sister went to uni, there's no girls worth looking at around here."

"Truly," Alfie said, "life is hard for a man of the world such as yourself."

"I know," Gareth said. As they approached the corner of the street, he pointed at one of the houses. "That's the one," he said.

Alfie glanced at the house. "Who lived there before?" he asked, forehead wrinkled with thought.

"It was… huh…" Gareth stared at the house as they passed by it. "Can't remember," he said, "don't you?"

"No… that's weird. I've lived here my whole life, we've been all over this neighborhood. Should remember who lived in a house before some old man moved in."

"Maybe…" Gareth began.

"Yeah?"

"Maybe they were just really boring."

Alfie laughed. "Why are we going to the shop, anyway?"

"Need more Crim, mate." Gareth reached into the pouch on the front of his sweatshirt and pulled out a bright green aluminum can. "Last can of the good stuff." He popped the top and took a drink. "Ah… Crim-Cola, delicious and nutritious, with nine essential vitamins and minerals."

"You trying out for a commercial?" Alfie asked.

"Reckon I should? I might…"

"No."

Gareth glared. "Alfie Owens, I never did like you. You crush dreams."

* * *

"Let's see," Gareth said, "A sixer of the original, a sixer of cherry, one of cream…"

"Gare, how much are you buying?" Alfie asked. "And where'd you get the money, anyway?"

"Dad just sent me a guilt check," Gareth said.

"You're the only kid I know with divorced parents," Alfie said, "who's glad he never sees his dad."

Gareth shrugged. "He isn't much of one," he said, "and he sends me money when he's too busy to see me. So, yeah, good all around." He went back to inspecting the selections. "Oh," he said with a glance over his shoulder, "grab a couple of packets of Hob Nobs, would you? The original ones."

Alfie sighed and went to get the biscuits. He stared at the shelves with a blank expression, thinking about his best friend.

"You look worried," a voice said. He looked over, then up. A tall, thin man stood next to him, a shopping basket in one hand. The old man gave Alfie an appraising look. "Not planning on robbing the shop, are you?"

"Oh, no!" Alfie said. He shook his head.

The old man laughed. "That's good." He leaned on a cane with a curved-hook for a handle. What Alfie always thought of as really short shepherd staves, due to an early childhood viewing of _Heidi_. "You know, I remember Hob Nobs being better, once…"

"When you were a kid?" Alfie asked.

"When I had someone to share them with," he said. He smiled, but there was a sadness to it. "Or at least, someone to eat all the ones she said I shouldn't eat, so she ate them for me."

Alfie grinned. "Think that would work on my mum? If I told her they were bad for her?"

"Aflie, you get the biscuits?" came over from the next aisle.

"My mate," Alfie said. "Yeah, Gare, hold up." He grabbed a pair of cardboard tubes from the shelf and headed around to where Gareth had a basket loaded with soft drinks.

"Need some crisps, too," Gareth told him.

* * *

At the counter, Alfie and Gareth fell into queue behind the old man. He leaned on his cane, his basket in the other hand. Alfie glanced into it. A single bottle of beer, a pre-made sandwich, a packet of crisps. He wondered if the old man had anyone to go home to. Was this who moved in down the street? Was there anyone for him in the world?

Alfie's mind began to weave a story for the old man. Fought in World War II... was he old enough for that? Never mind… sweetheart to come home to. She spent the war waiting, wondering if she would receive a letter telling her he died. Saved his mates during a German attack, got wounded, bit touch and go, there, for a while. She got the letter, higher-ups made a mistake. She thought he was gone.

Then the war ended, and after all that time, she was ready to be with someone else. And in he walked on her wedding day, into the church…"

"Alfie," Gareth whispered.

"What?"

"Step up, mate!"

"Huh?" Aflie blinked and stared at his friend, who pointed. "Oh." He shuffled closer to the counter, behind the old man. "Sorry."

"Were you on one of your dumb fantasy trips again?" Gareth asked.

"No!" Alfie glared at him. After a moment, he asked, "Don't you just wish the world was a bit more exciting, Gare?"

That was when the yardie came through the door with a sawed-off.

* * *

**Author's Note 09/17/12: Hopefully, this is improved; still an abrupt ending, but in a good way, and it actually fills in a bit of background and moved the story along.**


	3. Part III: Questions and Questions

**Author's Note: if you've read part 2 previous to this, and aren't sure where the yardie came from, go back and read it again. Part 2 was replaced.**

* * *

**Part III: Questions and Questions**

* * *

The yardie waved the shotgun at the customers. "Out of the way," he said. He stalked toward the counter.

"Oh, my…" Alfie began.

"…God," Gareth finished. The two boys shrank back from the threat.

"Fill a shopping bag with cash," the yardie told the clerk, "and throw a carton of Silk Cuts in, too."

As he reached the counter and began to turn toward the clerk, the old man took half a step back from him. Then the cane spun in his hand and smashed down on the yardie's right wrist. There was a crack and the youth howled in pain.

The old man spun the cane again and the point caught the would-be thief in the throat. He choked and hacked, and before he could recover, the hook came up to twist the weapon from his hands. It skidded across the tiles.

The old man tossed the cane back to Alfie, who caught it in shock. Then he grabbed the yardie's arm, with its broken wrist, and twisted. He put a loafer toe into the back of one knee and the leg folded. The yardie went down on one knee. The old man straddled the bent leg and torqued the arm up behind the youth's back. One hand on the broken wrist, twisted at a painful angle, the other on the elbow, he glanced at the clerk.

"You might want to dial 999," he said.

"That was…" Alfie began.

"…Awesome," Gareth finished.

* * *

"…And he was like, bam! Wham! And the yardie was like, aagh! And he was like…"

"I know, Gare, I was there, I saw it," Alfie said.

Gareth shook his head and took a drink of Cola. "That was amazing, man. Just amazing. Coolest thing I ever saw, I mean, that was cooler than the time UNIT showed up with guns and all."

"But who is he?" Alfie asked.

"What?" Gareth looked surprised at the question.

"Who is he?"

"Some old man," Gareth said. "Some awesome old man. Hey, maybe he used to be, like, a spy. MI-6. The name is 'Man… Old Man.'" Gareth put on a facial expression he seemed to think qualified as debonair.

"Gare, you're an idiot," Alfie said with a grin.

"I'm an idiot with Crim," Gareth reminded him.

"Then hook a mate up." Gareth handed over one of the cans and Alfie popped the top. "You ever wonder how awful the world would be," Alfie said, "without Crim-Cola?"

Gareth gave him a wide-eyed stare. "Don't talk about scary things, Alfie!" he said in a nervous voice. They both broke into laughter.

"Gareth!" floated through the bedroom door, in two drawn-out syllables.

"Yeah, mum?" Gareth shouted back.

Alfie covered his ears. Gareth and his mum rarely bothered with anything as mundane as face-to-face speech; shouting across the house was their usual method.

"Alfie's mum called! Is he here?"

"Yeah, mum!"

"She says come home!"

"Got it, mum!"

Alfie uncovered his ears. "You ever think about opening the door?" he asked.

"Why would I want to do that?" Gareth asked him, puzzled.

Alfie sighed. "Catch you later, Gare."

* * *

Alfie nursed the can of cola as he walked toward home. He mused on the scene at the convenience store. The old man had been amazing, Gareth was right about that. Alfie had never seen such a thing in his life, outside of a movie. The speed, the precision… Alfie wondered if the old man had been a spy, or something, if it was more than Gareth's imagination.

Then he thought of the sadness he had seen, when the old man talked about not having someone to share the Hob Nobs with… and he wondered who he lost, and how.

Lost in thought, Alfie turned the corner onto his own street and stopped. His gaze settled on the house he and Gareth talked about earlier, where Gareth said an old man moved in; was it the man from the shop? Alfie walked slowly toward the house. He reached the pavement in front of it and turned to stare full-on at the white painted clapboard and blue door.

He took slow sips of Crim-Cola as he stared. Was it the same old man? Who lived there before him? Alfie searched his memories, but could not place a face with the house. He grew cold and felt gooseflesh break out on his arms. Somebody had to live there, before, didn't they? The house didn't just appear, now. That wasn't possible.

Was it?

* * *

"Alfie Owens, where have you been?" Sophie Owens stood with her hands on her hips and gave her son a sharp look. "I called Gareth's mum almost an hour ago."

"Sorry, mum. Just walked slow, I guess."

Sophie's face changed to concern, and she dropped her hands. "Are you all right? You don't look good." She felt his forehead with the back of a hand. "Are you sick?"

He shook his head. "I'm okay."

"Too much cola?" she asked. "I think you drink far more of that than is healthy."

"Mum, Crim is good for you," he said, "it says so on the label. And I'm not sick, just… thinking."

Sophie smiled at him and asked, "And what are you thinking?"

"You know the house down the street? That you talked about earlier?"

"What about it?"

"Who used to live there? Before now."

Sophie considered. "That would be…" She pursed her lips. "You know, I can't remember. How weird." She shrugged. "Well, they must not have been very interesting." She smiled at Alfie. "Your dad will be back home, tomorrow! That will be great, won't it?"

* * *

Alfie walked down the night-time street. It was quiet in the neighborhood at night, and the boy liked the heady, cool air and the distance that marked all the noises he heard. His house lay behind him and he aimed himself at the house down the street; the old man's house. The house whose previous occupants were unrecalled by everyone, it seemed. He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets.

The walk seemed longer than it should be. As if the street stretched out before him an unreasonable distance. As he neared his destination, he glanced back toward his house. It stood at the distance it should, inviting even without lights on. Alfie turned back to his destination.

Someone stood in his way.

Alfie jumped in fright, then said, "You nearly scared me to death, mate!" He laughed. "Who is that?" When he received no answer, he said, "Quit mucking about." He pulled a small torch out of his pocket and twisted it on, then shone it on the interloper.

Black leather shoes, black trousers, black suit coat and even black shirt, black tie, face of pale white…

* * *

"Alfie, are you all right? What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Sophie sat on the edge of the bed and wrapped her arms around her son. She rocked him back and forth and whispered meaningless sounds in his ear.

Clad in sweat-soaked pajamas, Alfie Owens clung to his mother and waited for his heart to stop pounding.

* * *

He pounded on the door with his fist. Over and over, for more than a minute. At last, the door swung inward and the old man peered at him around the edge.

"What do you want?" he asked Alfie. His voice held a mixture of anger, but there was fear, too. So raw that Alfie could hear it in the brief question.

Alfie swallowed and stared at him, wide-eyed. Even with daylight behind him, he took a moment to ask. Then he blurted the question out that he had waited hours, since waking up from the nightmare, to ask.

"Who is the Clock-eyed Man?"


	4. Part IV: Answers and Explanations

**Author's Note: bit of a long one, here. Couldn't really find a good breaking point, so you get a bunch of small scenes at once.**

* * *

**Part IV: Answers and Explanations**

* * *

Alfie stared at the device on the coffee table.

He recognized the metronome; his mother enrolled him in piano lessons, briefly, before she figured out he wasn't interested. He could not figure out what the digital clock wired to it was for; or why the clock seemed to fluctuate the time on its face almost at random. Nor did the array of flashing lights make any sense to Alfie.

"What is that?" he asked.

The old man flicked his gaze to it and back to Alfie. "Makes the timey-wimey go all wibbly-wobbly," he said. His face hardened. "How do you know about... the Clock-eyed Man?"

"I'm Alfie," Alfie said. He raised his eyebrows. "Alfie Owens."

The old man sighed and rubbed his face. His expression softened to a faint smile. "Sorry. I haven't really been social for… a while. Rory Williams Pond," he said, "not actually my name, but it will do."

Alfie said, "Isn't this the part where you tell me to call you Rory, because Mr. Pond is your father?"

His laugh was genuine, surprised out of him. "If you like. Though Mr. Pond is my father-in-law, actually." He blew air through his impressive nose.

"Huh." Alfie reached into a pocket of his light jacket and pulled out a sheet of folded A5. He spread it out and smoothed it flat with a palm, then laid it on the coffee table and slid it forward like a gambler's ante. "This is him, isn't it?"

Rory did not touch it. He just leaned forward in his armchair. "Yes." He leaned back again. "You've seen him?"

Alfie looked back at his rough sketch. It would win no prizes, but it was a good representation. Long, thin white face, large, peaked nose, a mouth like he had sucked a lemon. And watch-faces for eyes complete with hands and numbers, set in his face below close-cropped dark hair.

He closed his eyes and saw the face again. He opened his eyes. "It was a dream," he said, "I know it was a dream. I was coming over here, late at night, from my house." He pointed a thumb back over his shoulder. "And I turned to look back, because it seemed like a crazy long walk, and when I turned around again..." He pointed at the drawing. "There he was." He shoved his hands in his pockets and huddled inside his red wind-cheater. "That's when I woke up."

Rory sighed. He leaned forward and steepled his hands in front of his face. He looked tired. "And you came running over here to see me?"

"You're not... just some geezer," Alfie said.

He snorted. "Thanks?"

"You fight like crazy; nobody seems to remember who lived here before you; and when I dreamed about that thing, I was on my way here... and you know what it is, don't you?"

After a moment, Rory nodded. "Yeah, I know what it is."

"Well..." Alfie swallowed. "Can you tell me, please, because this is like, Doctor-level weirdness."

Rory sat up. "What did you say?"

* * *

"So you know the Doctor," Rory said, later.

"I don't know him," Alfie said, "but my parents do. I've never met him. When I was a little baby, I mean, but that wasn't really meeting him." He furrowed his brow. "I do remember things, though, that I feel like he said to me... about being old, and the stars, and..." He shrugged. "I don't know. It was a long time ago.

"So you know him too?" he asked.

"I traveled with him for a while. My... my wife and I." Rory set a tea cup in front of Alfie. He returned to his armchair. "It was..." He laughed. "Funny. I was going to say it was a long time ago, but it wasn't, really."

"What do you mean?" Alfie looked into his tea cup and made a face.

"It's hard to explain." At Alfie's expression, he said, "I'll give it a shot, though. He didn't do me any favors, I tell you that. None of the bad things that happened would have happened, if it hadn't been for the Doctor." He considered. "Of course, if it hadn't been for the Doctor, the world would have been destroyed, so." He looked around and found a loose thread on his shirt. He plucked it off and held it up so Alfie could see it.

"Say this is time," Rory said. He tied a loop in the thread with quick fingers, as he continued, "Time isn't stable, and it isn't fixed, with certain notable exceptions. Things can happen in the past that cause changes in the future.

"You get something like this." He showed Alfie the loose loop with the string held straight. "Sometimes, things get put back." He drew the ends of the thread apart and Alfie watched the loop shrink until it was a tight knot on the thread. "But there are… residual bits. The knot never quite goes away. Not totally."

"Huh." Alfie stared at the thread. "And that's how time works, then?"

"No." Rory dropped the thread. "But I thought it might help to imagine it that way." He sipped his tea. "I'm the cast-off of one of those changes: a living, breathing paradox." He stared at something a thousand miles or years away. "I should not exist. But here I am."

Alfie looked him over, an old man with a weight upon his soul. "What about the Clock-eyed Man?" he asked at last.

Rory sighed. "He's me, as well. " At Alfie's expression, he said, "He's the personification of… my fate, I suppose, of all the time I have left. When he finds me, when the clocks in his eyes reach midnight, that's the end for me." He shrugged. "I'm done."

"That's awful!" Alfie said.

"Thanks." He sighed. "I've already lost so much, Alfie Owens… do I deserve to lose my life, too?"

"I don't think so," Alfie said.

His gaze went distant again. "Lost my daughter's childhood. Lost my wife… she's off with the… real me, the one from the original timeline. Lost my career, because if I get into the system too far, they figure out there are two of me." He shook his head. "Shouldn't have taken on that yardie at the shop. Makes me stand out."

"But that was brilliant!" Alfie said with a wide grin. "How did you do that?"

"Bartitsu and pankration," Rory said. He laughed at Alfie's blank look and the enthusiasm it still held. "Bartitsu was a Victorian martial art, involved cane-fighting and boxing and all sorts of things. The ancient Greeks practiced the other, a sort of combination of boxing and wrestling. Some, ah, Roman soldiers studied it."

"Can you teach me?" Alfie was on the edge of the sofa, all eagerness.

"Why would you want to learn that?"

His look became one of incredulity. "Were you never thirteen?" he asked.

* * *

"So, Mr. Pond, Alfie tells me you've agreed to teach him self-defense?" Craig Owens reached over and ruffled his son's hair.

"Dad," Alfie said and managed to make it one long syllable.

Rory gave him a faint smile. "Call me Rory, please."

"Mr. Pond is his father-in-law," Alfie said.

"We met down at the shop and he seemed impressed by the way I dealt with a, ah, situation there." He held up a hand to forestall Sophie's comment. "I have, however, already drummed it into him that what I did is something he should never do; the police are here to help with criminals, and he should only use self-defense as a last resort."

"How long did it take to get that across?" Sophie asked with a smile at her son.

"Mom," Alfie said and managed to make it one long syllable.

"Alfie tells me," Rory said, "that you know the Doctor?"

Craig's fork rang against his plate and he scrambled to pick it up. "Um, yes," he said, surprised, "in fact he got Sophie and me together." Sophie smiled at Craig and reached over to take his hand.

Rory nodded, face carefully blank. "He does do things like that. He helped my wife and me get together, as well. Of course, that was a long time ago."

"We met him when he rented a room from me," Craig said with a laugh. "That was a strange time, I tell you that."

"How do you know the Doctor, Mr… um, Rory?" Sophie asked.

"He's my son-in-law," Rory said.

Two forks clanged off plates and Craig and Sophie stared, open-mouthed.

"Excellent lamb, Mrs. Owens," Rory said as he took a bite.

"Just be glad she didn't go all veg," Alfie said.

Still open-mouthed, Sophie reached over and poked Alfie in the ribs.

* * *

"It's called a lock, Alfie," Rory said, "if you don't make it a strong one, you don't control your opponent and he gets free."

"Can't we try out that sword you've got?" Alfie asked.

"It's called a gladius," Rory said, "and it's almost two thousand years old. And a sword in the belly isn't exactly self-defense. Now come on, you're the one who wanted to learn this."

"Where'd you get it? The sword and all that armor and stuff? It's awesome."

"Got it in ancient Rome, when I was a centurion."

"No. Way!" Alfie stared, wide-eyed. "Seriously? Like, really seriously?"

"Really seriously," Rory smiled.

"How old are you?"

He grinned. "Couple of millennia, now, give or take a hundred years. It's hard to estimate when I've lived some of it more than once, some that never happened, and some that can't happen, anymore."

"How did you get to be in ancient Rome? Time travel?"

"No. I was a plastic robot controlled by the Nestene Consciousness. Then the universe ended." He ticked off points on his fingers. "Then it came back, then I was just me, then I was me and the Last Centurion, then…"

"What?" The question was flat.

"Hm?" He glanced up at the boy.

"The Last Centurion? You were… you are… you… you're the Last Centurion?"

"What, you've actually heard of me?" Rory looked pleased. He leaned on his cane a bit straighter.

"We learned about you in school!"

"Really?" He looked even more pleased, and said, "Well, that's flatteri…"

"Did a whole section on ancient Greek and Roman mythology and the legends of the Pandorica and the Last Centurion."

"'Mythology'?" His look changed to annoyance. Then he sighed, "Though I guess after the universe got reset, it did sort of fade to that, didn't I?"

"You really guarded that Pandorica thing for thousands of years?"

"Nearly two thousand. And don't call it a 'thing.'" Alfie blinked at the hardness in his voice. "It was a reliquary, the object of my custodianship and veneration for centuries on end."

"What was it?" he asked, quiet.

"The prison that held my dead wife in stasis."

"That's… weird…" Alfie said.

Rory glared, then laughed. "I suppose it is, isn't it?" He shook his head. "One day, Alfie, you'll understand; when you're older, you'll meet a girl whose coffin-prison you will joyfully guard and worship." He clapped his hands. "Now: locks."

* * *

"What does that thing do, anyway?" Alfie asked. He lay on the carpet, sweating under the fan.

Rory glanced at the modified metronome on the table. "I told you, it makes the timey-wimey…"

"Go wibbly-wobbly, yeah. But what does that mean?

"It confuses time and space a bit. Helps me hold together and puts off the Clock-eyed Man." He set down the tea cups. "It's also the reason no one can really remember who lived here, before. Time is too loose, and my presence is a paradox, so…"

"My parents think you're great, by the way," Alfie said, "you're the Doctor's friend, you're old…"

"Thank so much."

"And I'm learning about the ancient world along with the self-defense. Mum especially loves it, but I think she's just glad I'm not getting into more trouble."

"Finish the water, you need it. Then you can have tea. What trouble did you get in?" When Alfie explained the app and UNIT, Rory laughed. "That is impressive," he admitted. "Can't say I entirely blame your mother for that one."

"Oh, sure, side with mum." He rolled his eyes. "Adults." Alfie gulped the glass of water.

"That just hurts," Rory said. "I never planned to be an adult when I was your age. Of course, when I was your age, I was being pushed around by my wife and daughter."

"Wow," Alfie said, "you got married young."

"They weren't my wife and daughter then. I mean, my wife was Amelia, and my daughter was Mels, her best friend." Alfie stared at him. "Wibbly-wobbly," Rory said. He took Alfie's water glass and handed him the tea cup.

Alfie made a face. "Tea?" he asked, in a tone similar to the way he might ask if Rory expected him to drink urine.

"Are you even English?" Rory asked. "How do you not like tea?"

"Don't you have any Crim?"

"Is that one of the drugs you kids are using, these days?"

"Crim-Cola!"

"Never heard of it."

His jaw dropped. "How can you have never heard of Crim? It's world-famous Crim-Cola, since 1911!"

"Never heard of it."

"They have signs and adverts and…"

"Wait, I have seen those. I thought that was regional, or something. Really world-famous, or just publicity world-famous?"

"The Lip's dad…"

"What?"

"Phillip, one of my friends, we call him Phil the Lip, because when he was ten he got stung on the lip by a bee, and his lip swelled like crazy. It was hilarious," Alfie pronounced.

"Uh huh?"

"Anyway, his dad travels a lot, and he always buys the Lip a can from whatever country he's in. Lip's got them on a shelf in his room with little signs and everything."

Rory stared. "Alfie, Crim-Cola does not exist in any timeline I've ever seen."

"Do these timelines exist in some sort of Hell dimension?" Alfie asked, horror clear in his face and voice.

"Where do they produce this stuff?"

"London. They can it for different countries and ship them all over the world, though; they don't sell it in the international cans, here." Alfie sat up. "Why?"

Rory mulled it over. "You think your mum and dad would agree to a little field trip?"

"Where to?"

"We'll tell them it's to the Museum of London," Rory said, "but I think we'll check out the Crim-Cola factory."

Alfie's burst into auto-initiated tears. "You do love me!" he exclaimed.


	5. Part V: The Last Centurion, Live On Tour

**Part V: The Last Centurion, Live on Tour**

* * *

"I don't see why I don't get a whacking big knife."

"It's called a pugio," Rory murmured, "and because you're thirteen." He looked attentive as the tour guide led the group along the assembly line.

"And after the aluminum cans are sterilized, they travel the conveyor to the filling stations." The woman was young, professional, and thoroughly dedicated to staying on-script. She smiled at all the right moments, and pointed when necessary. "The machines can fill and seal over three hundred cans a second."

The crowd was on-script, as well. They "oohed" and "aahed" on cue. All except Rory, who stamped along with his cane, Alfie at his side.

"Being thirteen means I can't have a whacking big pugio?"

"Oh, God, yes," Rory said.

"That's hardly fair," Alfie whispered.

"Your life is truly a veil of tears."

"It really is," Alfie agreed with a nod.

"How much cola comes out of here in a day?" asked a man who seemed more interested in the process that his children did. He constantly reached out to hook one by the back of the shirt and drag them back into the tour group.

"I'm sorry," the guide said with a bright and insincere smile, "please save all questions for the end of the tour. There will be a question and answer section when we reach the cola bar."

"Cola bar?" Alfie asked, "Now that sounds pretty cool!"

Rory rolled his eyes. Then he laboriously knelt down to tie his shoe. Or mime the process, anyway; he still wore the beaten-up loafers he had on when Alfie first met him. "Look," Rory whispered, "we obviously aren't going to find anything by following the party line and drinking the Kool-Aid."

"Crim," Alfie said, "are you going senile, now, 'grandpa'?"

"It's a metaphor," Rory growled. "I'm going to slip away first chance I get. Give it a minute or two and then cause a distraction. I'm sure you'll think of something."

Alfie's grin was so wide, it looked as though it hurt his jaw. "I'll think of something," he agreed.

Rory jerked back from him, eyes wide. "Never make that face again," he said. He climbed to his feet using his cane and Alfie's shoulder. Then he glanced around. "Soon," he whispered out of the side of his mouth. "Let's catch up."

"...puts the tops on the aluminum cans," the guide said, further down the line. "This two-piece design was created for Crim, back in the 1960s. Before that, Crim was sold in the classic 'streamlined' glass bottle. It was necessary to retrofit the factory, at a cost of over one hundred thousand pounds, at contemporary rates. Now, it would be like spending one point five million pounds!" She smiled and delivered a false chuckle. "Wouldn't want to foot that bill!"

The tour group laughed dutifully.

Alfie sighed and stared at the machinery that roared cans past them. He wondered how fast you would need to move, to snatch one off the line after it was sealed. He grinned. "Bet you couldn't move fast enough to grab one, grandpa," he said. When Rory did not answer, he looked around. "Grandpa... Rory?" There was no sign of the Last Centurion.

Sixty second later, by Alfie's watch, the boy burst into wailing, snot-nosed tears. "My grandpa's missing!" he screeched.

* * *

Rory slipped away. He moved as fast and low as he could, concealed behind machinery. Fortunately, much of the factory was automated. The few workers who moved about and looked over the works were easy enough to avoid.

He headed to the offices. He spotted them above the factory floor, from his position the ground. He just hoped no one looked out through the wide windows that fronted them. There were no alarms by the time he reached the stairs, and with another look around, he started up to the first floor.

In his mind, Rory hummed the Mission: Impossible theme.


	6. Part VI: No, Mr Pond

**Part VI: "No, Mr. Pond, I Expect You to Die!"**

* * *

"Alfie?"

"Yeah."

Rory sat still, eyes closed. "The pain in my skull and the fact my arms seem to be bound behind me, leads me to believe we have been nicked."

"Yeah." Alfie sounded depressed.

"Hm."

"These guys are tough," Alfie said, "even the tour lady didn't fall for my tears. And I ran the whole 'I miss my mum' routine on her. With snot and everything."

Rory opened his eyes and looked around the room. "Any idea what time it is?"

"Can't see my watch, my hands are behind me. Night though, I think."

"Great." Rory sighed. "Your folks are going to think I kidnapped you."

"How'd they catch you, anyway?" Alfie asked.

"I don't know," Rory said, "I was prowling through offices, but I don't recall anything after that."

"Maybe they hit you in the head," Alfie said, "they always do that in movies."

"It hurts, but it doesn't feel sore. Not sore like I took a thumping."

"It was a neural stunner, actually." A man entered the room leaned against the doorway. He was a big man, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up. His tie hung loose around an open collar.

Rory pursed his lips. "I'm guessing from the fact you're obviously up to something and the frank discussion about technology that doesn't exist yet, you're from a different area code."

Alfie tried to turn his head enough to see the man. "Is he an alien? Does he have feelers and all? What's he look like?"

"He looks a bit like Hoagy Carmichael, actually," Rory said.

"Who?"

"Never mind." He looked the man over. "Rory Pond," he said at last. He nodded toward Alfie, over his shoulder. "Alfie Owens."

"The name's Jherek Carnelian."

Rory narrowed his eyes in thought. Then, he said, "Isn't that one of Moorcock's aspects of the eternal champion?"

The man laughed. "Oh, very good!" He walked over and dragged another chair to sit it in front of Rory. Then he sat down. "'Dancers At the End of Time,' actually, but I've always been fond of the classics. In any case, you couldn't pronounce my real name, you don't have the mouth-parts for it. Why were an old man and a boy snooping around my factory?"

"Wait," Alfie said, still trying to look, "this is your factory? You own Crim? Aw, that's brilliant! I love Crim! Can you hook me up with a lifetime supply?"

Rory shook his head. "Alfie?"

"What?"

"Please do not applaud the nefarious plans of the probably-alien and probably-time-jumping villain."

"But… Crim…"

Rory looked back to "Jherek" and said, "Want to explain to me just what's going on, here?"

"Yes," Jherek said, "but it would be stupid on a number of levels to describe my plan to you. And believe me, that hurts, because it is one hundred percent, bona fide, genius. If I do say so myself." He paused. "And I do."

"What?" Alfie asked, outraged. "But you're the bad guy. The bad guy is always supposed to reveal his plans to the hero."

"Alfie," Rory said, "I think you need to quit watching quite so much television. Might want to cut down on the movies, too."

"Have you considered the idea," Jherek said, "that you two aren't the heroes in this?" He grinned. There was something, Rory thought, odd, about his teeth. "You could be the hapless bystanders who die to show how dangerous and nefarious the villain really is."

"Hm," Alfie said.

Rory rolled his eyes. "Oh, dear God, would you two stop it?"

"Geez, Rory," Alfie said, "don't you like movies? Do you even watch movies?"

"I watch movies," Rory said, "sometimes."

"What was the last one you saw?" Alfie asked.

"Gladiator." He was silent for a moment. "It wasn't very realistic."

"See?" Aflie said, "That's what I mean, you take things too seriously."

Jherek looked amused. "I presume you two aren't actually related," he said, "so I have to know, how did you meet?"

"We were both in a store when it got robbed," Rory said.

"When a guy tried to rob it," Alfie corrected. "Rory kicked his arse!"

"Really?" Jherek raised an eyebrow.

"It was brilliant," Alfie said. "Hey, can we turn the chairs so we're more sideways? I can't really see you, and I'm getting a strain in my neck."

"I don't think I want to have you moving about under your own power," Jherek said, "but I tell you what.." He stood and picked up his chair, then moved around so he could face both of them from one side. He set the chair down and sat in it once more. "Better?"

Alfie turned his head to look. "Oh, yeah, that's easier, thanks."

Rory sighed and shook his head. "Quit conversing pleasantly with the villain," he said in a low sing-song.

Jherek said, "Now, Mr. Pond…"

"Call him Rory," Alfie said, "Mr. Pond is his father-in-law."

"One of those modern marriages, eh?" Jherek asked. "I get you." He nodded. "Rory, then. I really don't think there's any reason to be rude. Certainly, I'm going to have to kill you both so my plan goes off without a hitch. But that doesn't mean we can't be reasonable about the whole thing, now does it?

"And I feel I'm being very understanding, here. After all, you were found breaking into offices here and you had a whacking big knife on you."

"It's called a pugio," Alfie said. "He wouldn't let me have one."

"Now that's terrible," Jherek commiserated.

"You know," Rory said loudly, "there was a time that my life was really very normal. These kinds of things rarely happened to me." His head rose from its bowed position. "Oh, I remember now!"

"What?" Alfie asked.

"I was going through one of the offices when I opened a door, and there was this… giant… mantis-like thing." He turned and looked at Jherek in horror. "Is that what you look like?"

"I suppose you could describe me thus." He sniffed in annoyance. "If you were an unimaginative ape."

"What, he's a giant bug?" Alfie asked, horrified. He stared wide-eyed at the man.

"We're called the Crim-mak," Jherek said. He looked irritated. "And we are not bugs." He turned his nose up and said, "My people have internal skeletons, and thin carapaces that take the place of skin. Your bugs lack internal skeletons, have thicker comparative carapaces, and if I might say, are dumb as rocks."

"Yeah, great," Alfie said, "doesn't make it any less gross that you're a bug with an internal skeleton."

"True," Rory said, "I have to agree with him on that."

Jherek sneered. "Just for that," he pointed, "your deaths are going to be extra painful." He stood knocked his chair aside.

"Is it a human suit, then?" Alfie asked. "I saw this movie once with a big bug alien in, and he killed this guy and..."

"No," Jherek snapped, "it is not a 'human suit.' You know, I liked you at first, Alfie, but you're really starting to wear on my patience. It's the incessant talking." He took a step toward them.

"Perception filter, is it?" Rory asked.

Jherek paused. "What?"

"You have a perception filter, yeah? Electronic, I'm guessing."

The man narrowed his eyes at Rory. "What do you know about it? How do you know about it?"

Rory shrugged as well as he could with his hands bound behind him. "I've been around," he said. "Time, space, here and there. There were these sexy fish vampires in sixteenth century Venice..." He noticed Alfie's stillness. "You know, never mind."

"Aw," Alfie muttered.

Jherek moved in to glare down at Rory. "Where are you from?" he asked.

"Leadworth," Rory said. "It's not very big, but it's a nice town."

Jherek slapped him. When Rory glared at him, the alien said, "Tell me the truth! Where do you come from? You aren't from here, not this time, or place. Not knowing what you know."

"He's that Last Centurion, you wanker!" Alfie shouted.

Jherek turned his glare to Alfie. "What?"

"He's about two thousand years old, and he could totally kick your arse, if you fought fair," Alfie said.

"Two thousand years old? Really?" Jherek straightened and lifted a hand to his chin. "I don't know of any race that lives that long..." He gave Rory a speculative look.

"I do," Rory said. He looked straight ahead. "Time Lords."

Jherek made an odd hiss through his teeth. Alfie, neck twisted to look, went wide-eyed. The teeth looked as if they shifted in four directions, not just up and down but side to side, as well. "Time Lords," Jherek said, "there are no Time Lords anymore! They were wiped out in the last great time war!"

"There's still one," Rory said, voice low and even.

Jherek leaned in again, bent at the waist in an odd manner. "And that's you?" he snapped.

Rory turned to look at him. "No," he said, louder, "but I thought you'd find the fact interesting."

He threw a punch into Jherek's face that sent the alien reeling. Rory surged to his feet and caught up the chair, then smashed it across Jherek's head and shoulders. The alien went down with a squawk.

"That was... amazing," Alfie said, awe in his voice.

Rory glanced back at him. "Yeah, well," he began, modest.

"Watch out!" Alfie shouted.

Rory turned back and caught Jherek in the face with an elbow. The alien made a keening noise and staggered back a step. Rory grabbed him by and arm and spun him, then kicked into a knee. The leg folded and Rory went for the elbow lock.

Jherek's head turned around completely and he glared at Rory. "That. Isn't. Nice!" He slammed his head at Rory and caught him in the nose. Rory cried out and staggered back toward Alfie.

Jherek came up off the floor and his body swiveled to face the same way as his head. He seemed to pixelate and fade into static, then nothingness. A shiny, viridian form unfolded into a mantis-like creature. "That. Hurt." The voice was still Jherek's, creepily out of place in the insectile mouth.


	7. Part VII: A Fighting Chance

**Part VII: A Fighting Chance**

* * *

The mantis-like Crim-mak, Jherek, took a step toward Rory. In the out-of-place human voice, it said, "How did you get out of the ropes? Just as a note for when I have future prisoners."

Rory shrugged. "Two thousand years, you get bored. I spent about a hundred years on and off, studying sleight of hand and escapology. I know about a thousand card tricks, too."

"Aw, man," Alfie said, "can you teach me that, after we get done with this whole alien thing? That would be so cool!"

"I'm afraid you'll be dead," Jherek said. He hurtled at Rory.

Rory lashed a palm into his skull, right between the eyes. Jherek spun and swung a sharp forearm at the man, who stepped back to avoid it and drove a knee into the creature's side. He caught the flailing forelimb and twisted back and up. Jherek cried out in pain and anger. Rory shoved and forced him down toward the floor.

Jherek's feet scrabbled at the floor. Rory kicked them desperately out from under him. Then the alien struck backward and caught him in the face. He cried out and reeled back, blood spattering from his nose. Jherek turned in an eye blink and drove his armored forearms into Rory's chest. Rory staggered back and fought for balance.

"Rory, duck!" Alfie shouted. Jherek leapt at Rory, who sidestepped and caught Jherek's leading arm. He turned and twisted, then threw the alien over his shoulder and kicked into its thorax. Jherek slid across the concrete floor, scrabbling for purchase. "Oh, that was amazing!" Alfie cheered.

Jherek gathered himself. Not looking so good, Rory," he taunted, "are you feeling… tired… old man?"

"Ah!" Rory held up a finger as Jherek started forward. "No…" His other hand rose up to reveal a strange, angular pistol.

Jherek stopped. "What…" he scrabbled at his body. "My stunner! How did you…"

"Picking pockets: ten years."

Jherek took a step forward. Rory aimed. "What makes you think that will work on me?" Jherek asked. He might have smiled, but the two humans could not tell if he did.

"It's designed for your hands," Rory said, "which means your people likely manufactured it. Races design and carry weapons to do two things: affect as wide a range of life forms as possible, and affect their own kind."

"That's ridiculous." He took another step forward.

"Also? You hesitated before you asked me that."

Rory pulled the trigger and Jherek went down in a screech, body dancing with electricity.

* * *

"I have a question," Alfie said. He held the possessions they retrieved from a table in the next room.

"Yeah?" Rory stepped back, satisfied with the bindings he had used on Jherek. He began to take his things from Alfie and put them in his pockets.

"How are you getting around without a cane?" Alfie handed him the object in question.

Rory paused, and looked embarrassed. "Oh. Ah…"

Alfie went wide-eyed. "You big fake!" he said. "You don't really need one!"

Rory shrugged. "No, not really. It's just a convenient way to have something I can use as a weapon." He moved to take a cell phone from Alfie.

"You lied about not having a phone, too!" Alfie accused, outraged.

"I don't own a phone," Rory said, "that's yours."

"Why do you have my phone?" Alfie held it away from him.

"Because your mum didn't trust you with it," Rory said. He took it.

"This is a conspiracy," Alfie muttered.

Rory poked at the phone's keypad, ignoring his complaints. "Agh, how do you kids do your texting, anyway? I can't even let your parents know I haven't snatched you to kill and eat you! We'll call later."

He tossed it back to Alfie, who caught it and stroked it, cooing, "Phooone, good phooone…"

Rory sat down in a chair before Jherek. He used the cane to help lower him to the seat. "I am feeling a little worn, I have to admit."

"What's wrong?" Alfie asked, phone forgotten.

"Don't know." He sighed and looked at Jherek. Then he felt his nose with a ginger touch. "You broke my nose," he said.

"Oh, boo hoo," Jherek said. His voice was scratchy, and prone to bursts of static. "You broke my perception filter and damaged my translator. And you cracked my forearm carapace!" He looked away. "You're a proper bastard, you know that?"

"Says the alien who is engineering a scheme against the people of earth," Rory said.

"Yeah," Alfie said, "with… delicious and nutritious Crim-Cola…" Rory gave him a warning look.

"Sure," Jherek told Rory, "demonize the foreigner."

"Obviously," Rory said, "the stuff is addictive, because he can't stop thinking about it." He gestured at Alfie, who looked outraged.

"Addictive? That's not fair, just 'cause I drink a can or two…"

"An hour," Rory said. He turned back to Jherek. "So what's the story?"

"Why should I tell you?" Jherek asked. He tilted his head to one side and snapped his mandibles at Rory. "You invaded my factory, beat me up…"

"You invaded earth!" Alfie said.

"Exactly," Rory agreed, "so talk."

"No." He looked away.

Rory sighed and rubbed his eyes. "God," he said, "I am tired. Too tired to deal with you." He stood from his chair and said, "All right, Alfie, come on, I'll show you how to make enough improvised explosives to blow a factory to rubble. It'll be a bonding experience," he said, cheerful.

"Cool!" Alfie paused and glanced back at Jherek. "What do we do with him, though?"

Rory shrugged. "I guess he goes up with the factory."

"You can't do that!" Jherek yelled.

"We… we can't, can we?" Alfie asked, voice uneasy. "We're the good guys.

"No, you can't!" Jherek yelled.

Rory gave the alien a cool look, then looked at Alfie. "Alfie," he said, "it's time you learned something, all right? I know you're only thirteen, so maybe this is early, but it's still true: there are no good guys or bad guys. Just people doing what needs to be done. Pragmatism, self-interest, whatever. No one is motivated by anything noble, not in real life."

"That's not true," Alfie said. His face twisted.

"I'm two thousand years old," Rory said, "so I have to tell you, I've seen it all. It's true."

"Well, well," Alfie's eyes teared up, and he managed, "what about you and me? You didn't have to teach me stuff! And what about the Last Centurion and the Pandorica? What about that?"

Rory shrugged. "You said it yourself, Alfie. You learned about all that in mythology."

"It's real!" Alfie shouted, desperate.

"Sure it is," Rory said.

"You can't leave me here to die," Jherek called, as Rory stepped into the next room.

Rory glanced back and gave him a neutral look. "Then talk," he shrugged.

Alfie's face was red and hot, and tears trickled down his cheeks. "Tell him," he said to Jherek, "tell him, cause I want the world to be a good place again and I don't want to know I helped kill someone and I…"

Jherek wailed, "Oh, by the Great Egg, fine! It is addictive, but it makes people healthy, really!"

"And…" Rory said. He was still half through the door.

"That's all, I swear!"

"Mm-hm." He continued on his way.

"Okay, okay!" Over Alfie's quiet sobs, he said, body wilted in defeat, "There's a broadcast array on the roof. The cola also contains nanites in a high ratio. When the signal is broadcast, the nanites begin to take over, and bam! Healthy slaves."

"You, sir," Rory said, pointing at him, "are a proper bastard."

"Don't blow me up," Jherek said in a tiny voice. "It was just business…"

"What?" Rory looked confused. "Oh," he said. Then, "Good God, I don't know how to make explosives."

"What?" Jherek's mandibles twitched.

"Spent twenty-five years on acting, though." Rory grinned at Alfie. "Your finest performance yet, Alfie."

Alfie wiped his face with the back of one hand and looked at the phone he held in the other. "'Cry, and play along, you'll know when,'" he read. "How do you know how to text, anyway?"

"I was young once," Rory said, "I had a phone with a camera and text plan and everything."

"I hate you both, so. Much." Jherek said.

"I do, however," Rory said, "know how to put in a call to UNIT."

"Ooh, let me," Alfie said, "I have them on speed dial, anyway."

"Of course you do."


	8. Part VIII: How Good Men Stand

**Part VIII: How Good Men Stand**

* * *

Martha Smith-Jones straightened from the microscope. "Well, ma'am," she said to Kate Stewart, "it's definitely alien, but nothing I've ever encountered. I can do some research through UNIT's files."

Stewart nodded. The older woman said, "Yes, please. I appreciate you helping us out with this. I know you and your husband have been dealing with that Sontaran splinter group."

"I think Mickey and I have them pretty well cleaned up," Martha said.

"I'll be glad to lend him a squad of soldiers to help with the final sweep, in exchange for your scientific aide in this matter," Stewart said.

Martha grinned. "Is this how UNIT gets things done these days, ma'am?"

"Sometimes it is," Stewart assured her with a smile.

"Ma'am," a soldier saluted.

"What is it, sergeant?" Stewart asked.

He held up a satellite phone. "There's a young boy, ma'am." He looked at Martha. "He says he's calling for Mrs. Smith-Jones."

"Me?" Martha's brow furrowed. "Who would be calling me here? A young boy, you said?"

"Yes, ma'am. He said something about an alien running a cola factory, and that he and a Roman centurion have captured it."

Stewart raised an eyebrow. "Answer away," she said, "I think we may have just found a far more interesting operation than alien cockroaches."

* * *

UNIT soldiers surrounded the factory outside. Inside, Stewart and Martha crossed the factory floor, a contingent of soldiers, Alfie, and Rory, in tow.

"It's an impressive scheme," Stewart said. She glanced at the two. "How did you stumble on it?"

"Oh," Rory said, "we were on a tour and took a wrong turn, and, well, you know how it is."

"Not really," Stewart said, "but I'll take your word for it. I'm glad, though. A plan to turn the cola-drinking public into slaves... it sounds ridiculous, but I can see the cunning. I've hoisted a few cold cans of Diet Crim, myself."

"Yeah," Martha agreed, "the diet lime is great."

Rory rolled his eyes. "I'm glad we could help you out," he said. "I have to say, it's rather late, though." He yawned. "I'm an old man, and I think Alfie's parents might think I kidnapped him.

"I called them," Alfie said. He shrugged. "I told mum that we were helping out UNIT." He considered. "I think she thought it was a... what's that thing you call something that means something else?"

"A euphemism?" Stewart asked.

"Yeah. I think she thought it was a euphemism for 'got in trouble again.'"

Martha smiled. "I'll talk to her." She told Stewart, "I've, um, been involved in the UNIT side of Alfie's... escapades... before."

"We've dealt with you before?" she asked Alfie. "Refresh my memory."

"The road signs warning of alien invasion," Martha supplied.

"Ah," Stewart nodded, "of course. That cost the government a pretty penny." She eyed Alfie speculatively. "Perhaps one day we'll make it back in held pay."

"Ma'am," a soldier said with a salute, and, "ma'am, sir, um..." To Alfie, he added, "sir?" as if uncertain.

"Report, Leftenant," Stewart said.

"It's definitely a portal setup. One end here, the other in whatever time and place the Crim-mak came from, originally."

"Well, then," Stewart said, "I think it's time we deported him, don't you?"

* * *

"We do apologize for keeping Alfie so long," Martha told Craig and Sophie. "He and Mr. Pond were a huge help in an operation we were conducting."

"Wait," Sophie said, "so he isn't in trouble? He really was helping UNIT out?"

"Yes," Martha said. "They discovered some mysterious circumstances during their tour of the fa..." She caught Alfie's frantic head shake, from behind his mother. She coughed to cover the slip. "Um, of the museum, and alerted us."

"Wow," Craig said. He turned to Alfie, "Good work, son!" He held out his fist and Alfie bumped it with his own.

Sophie rolled her eyes. "You two," she muttered. "I'm just glad he isn't in trouble, this time."

"No, not in any trouble at all. In fact, we've noted him down for a commendation. Not that we can actually give it to him, top secret, and all."

"Oh, no, no, we understand," Craig said.

"Yes, of course," Sophie agreed. "I'm just glad it's not trouble," she added.

"I'm not in trouble, mum," Alfie commented, "you don't have to keep acting so surprised."

"If you don't mind my talking to him for just a moment?" Martha asked. "In private?"

When they were alone, she asked Alfie, "Why did you and your, what, tutor? Decide to go to a cola factory anyway? And tell you parents you were going to a museum?"

"Because Crim-Cola is great!" Alfie said, then winced. "You know... as far as... mind-controlling health drinks, go. But mum would never have let me off on a trip to a factory, so we told her we were going to the museum."

Martha nodded and gave him a knowing smile. "I see. Lucky show for us, I suppose," she said. "But Alfie?"

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Do try to stay out of trouble, in the future, won't you? We only have so much operation budget to spend."

* * *

It was the next morning when Alfie asked Rory, "Why did you want to keep what you are a secret from UNIT, anyway? They're nice!"

"No," the old man said, "they are a military and science outfit that deals with aliens and strange phenomena. Like me, for instance." He shook his head. "I didn't trust them not to want to research me." He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair with a sigh.

After a few moments of silence, Alfie asked, "Are you okay, Rory? Really, I mean?"

Rory opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he shook his head. His eyes were still shut when he said, "No, I'm not. I'm tired." He glanced at the device on the table and closed his eyes once more. "I was away from that thing for more than a day. Stupid of me. I should have taken it with me. At least in the car, it might have extended far enough to cover me."

"What's wrong with you?" Alfie asked.

"You know," Rory told him. "My time is running out."

Alfie swallowed. "Are you..." After a moment, he started again. "How long do you think you have?"

"I don't know," Rory said. "The Clock-eyed Man's hands have to be drawing closer to midnight, though. It can't be long."

Alfie said, loudly, "I was at the store. I found a dusty six-pack of Crim at the back of a shelf. The clerk didn't even know what it was. He let me take it. What does that mean?"

"When they packed 'Jherek' through the portal," Rory said, after a few minutes, "this time line he set up... it must have started to collapse. Quickly, too. I would guess because he was so far out of his proper time and place. I've lasted as long as I have because I belong here. Sort of. And..." He waved a hand at the device.

"It's a paradox," Alfie said.

"Yes. Like me."

Alfie sat for a while and fidgeted. He looked around the living room. "Did you want to practice?" he asked. There was a high, desperate edge to his voice.

After a few moments, Rory said, "Maybe later, Alfie. I'm pretty tired."

"Okay," Alfie whispered.

* * *

Alfie walked down the night-time street, Tupperware full of leftovers in his hands. It was quiet in the neighborhood at night, and the boy liked the heady, cool air and the distance that marked all the noises he heard. His house lay behind him and he aimed himself at the house down the street; Rory Williams Pond's house. The house whose previous occupants were unrecalled by everyone, because of Rory's paradoxical tenancy.

The walk was only a few minutes. Halfway there, he glanced down a side-street and saw a man beneath a street lamp. Alfie froze and stared down the street at the illuminated man. Black leather shoes, black trousers, black suit coat and even black shirt, black tie, face of pale white…

Alfie yelled, "Just stay away from him!" He launched into a run and hammered down the street. His sneaker soles slapped loudly on the tarmac. He hurtled the kerb and crossed the pavement, then reached Rory's door. He hammered on it with a fist. When Rory opened the door, Alfie jerked back from the haggardness visible in his face. Then he pushed past and shoved the door shut with his shoulder. He threw the locks.

Rory cast him a look of weary amusement as the man crossed back to his chair. He lowered himself to it, using the cane as an aide. It was obvious he needed it. Alfie stood before him, breath rapid. "What have you got there?" Rory asked.

"What?" Alfie looked down at the Tupperware. "Oh. Mum sent me with leftovers. We had steak and kidney pie."

"That was nice of her," Rory said. He sounded older than ever before.

Alfie said, "He's here, Rory. I saw him. Not far away." The words came out in a stream.

"Yes. I can feel him."

Alfie dropped the container on the coffee table. "You have to get out of here, Rory. Take your wibbly-wobbly thing and go. Run."

"I'm too tired to run," Rory said.

"You can't stay here! He'll be here soon!"

Rory shook his head. "I was a fool to fight it, Alfie. I was never meant to be. Now, it's time for me to not be."

Alfie's face was hot and red. "Please," he managed, "don't just wait for him."

Rory shook his head. "I can't do it anymore, Alfie."

Alfie dropped down to sit on the table. He glanced down at something hard under him, and scooted over. There was a long shape wrapped in brown paper. He picked it up. ""What's this?" he asked.

Rory opened his eyes a crack, then closed them. "Gift for you," he said. "I know it's knife-shaped, but try to act surprised when you open it."

Alfie clutched the wrapped pugio to his chest. "You're just going to wait," he said.

"Yeah."

"Why?" he asked in a plaintive voice.

"I couldn't run anymore if I wanted to," Rory told him. "I don't have the energy." He struggled to straighten and stared at the boy. "I want to tell you something, though, Alfie."

"What?"

"You remember what I said, when we were tricking Jherek?"

"Yeah."

"Remember this: it was a lie. There are good people, and there are bad people. It isn't always easy to tell the difference, and you can almost never tell from looking." He worked to get breath. "So it doesn't matter what a person looks like; it only matters how they are, how they act. The ones who act out of concern for others, who do good things just because they need doing... emulate them.

"If you expect a person to be good, sometimes, they'll let you down. Sometimes, though, more often than not... you'll be rewarded." He gasped and leaned back.

There was a slow knock at the door: thud, thud, thud. Alfie jumped and looked over his shoulder. "It's him," he whispered.

"Yeah," Rory said. "Let him in, will you?"

"I can't." Moisture streaked his face.

Rory cracked his eyelids and gave a faint smile. "I appreciate the tears," he said, "that's a unique talent you possess."

"Yeah." Alfie gave him a weak grin and wiped his face. "Thought that might sway you," he murmured.

"Please, Alfie, answer the door."

Alfie stood and walked to the door. Just before he undid the locks and opened it, he looked down at the wrapped pugio. His face hardened, and he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, hard beneath the paper. Then he breathed a deep sigh and shook his head. "Rory wouldn't," he whispered, so quiet that the old man could not hear it.

He undid the locks and opened the door, then stepped aside to allow the Clock-eyed Man to enter. Then he moved quickly to stand beside Rory's chair. "Alfie," Rory whispered.

Alfie said, "No good man lets a friend die alone, Centurion."

Rory coughed. He fumbled for Alfie's hand. The boy squeezed his fingers, thin and cold. "Virum amicumque bonum saluto," he whispered.

Alfie gave the creature before him a hard look. Clock eyes regarded him, impassive. "You cannot kill him," Alfie told it, voice harder than it had ever been. "Not while I remember him." Tears dripped hot from his cheeks.

The Clock-eyed Man, if it understood, said nothing, but reached for Rory.

* * *

"What have you been doing all holiday, anyway?" Gareth asked. He peered into the fridge. "Hey, you want a Coke?"

"Sure," Alfie said. He shrugged. "You know, around. Grounded, mostly."

"Happens to the best of us, mate," Gareth said. He handed Alfie an aluminum can. "And where did you get that whacking big knife you got hung over your bed? That's the coolest!" He cracked open his Coke and took a long, loud drink.

"It's called a pugio," Alfie said.

"Where did you get the whacking big pugio?" Gareth resumed his loud slurping. "Can't believe your folks let you keep that."

"It's old and rusted, you couldn't hurt anyone with it." Alfie smiled. "A friend gave it to me," he said.

Gareth glared. "Well now I know you're lying," he said, "you haven't got any friends, except me."

Alfie's smile was faint. "Not anymore," he said. Then he grinned wider. "They saw you and ran away."

Gareth nodded. "Yup," he agreed. "No one compares to the Gare-minator."

"Let's not go with that as a nickname," Alfie suggested.

* * *

"Alfie, dinner!" Sophie stuck her head into Alfie's bedroom. She gave him a surprised look. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Studying," he said. He sat at the desk, books and papers spread before him.

She entered. "Are you feeling all right?" She felt his forehead.

"Muuum," he said. "I'm fine!"

"What are you studying?" she asked, eyes narrowed.

"Latin," he said.

Sophie's mouth dropped open. "Latin," she said.

"Mm hm."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because someone I knew once spoke Latin."

"Who?"

"Oh. A... teacher."

"From school?"

"Yeah." He paused. "My favorite teacher." At her questioning look, he said, "You never met him. Mr. Pond. He taught ancient history." He turned back to his books.

She turned and walked out of the room. "Craig," she called downstairs, "Our son has been replaced by an alien pod person, just thought you should know."

"He looks normal enough," Craig called back up the stairs, "are you sure?"

"Oh, I'm sure," she told him.

* * *

"London's not changed much in seventy years," Amy Pond told her husband. "I was hoping for flying cars or something, by now."

"The trip is falling a bit flat," Rory Williams agreed. "Didn't the Doctor _claim_ there would be flying cars?"

"And 'spacey things,'" Amy said. The tall redhead shrugged and tossed her hair. "Personally, I think he was just trying to get rid of us for a while."

"Why would he do that?" Rory asked. He stared at a nearby statue. "Though Admiral Nelson does have a sort of spacey look to him, now," he added.

Amy tilted her head. "No, those are the pigeons," she said, "they're electric blue."

"Maybe they're alien pigeons," Rory suggested.

"Space pigeons, perhaps?" Amy asked with a playful smile.

"They might be space pigeons," Rory said with a grin.

"Naw," they both said.

"But why _would_ he want to get rid of us?" he asked her.

"To have it off with our daughter," she said, darkly.

"Okay," Rory said, "never say anything like that ever again."

"How's this?" Amy asked. "Don't look now, but there's an old man staring at you."

"What? Where?" Rory cast his gaze around.

"You're not really up on the whole 'don't look now' thing, are you, Mr. Williams?" Amy asked. "On that bench, over there." She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, now he's coming this way."

Rory straightened as the old man walked up to him. He blinked, trying to remember if he knew him from somewhere. Sixties maybe, tall, using a hooked cane to walk... a past patient, perhaps? The man nodded to him.

"You're Rory," the old man said, "Rory Williams. Aren't you?"

"Um, yes..." Rory and Amy glanced at each other.

"With the Doctor, then?" the old man asked, solemn.

"He's just popped out for a bit," Rory said, words slow. He and Amy shared confused expressions. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

The old man smiled. "Not in this lifetime," he said. He held out his hand. "Brigadier-General Alfie Owens, of UNIT. It's a pleasure, sir. A great pleasure."

"Oh... kay..." Rory said. He shook the proffered hand.

"This must be your wife, Amelia Pond?" Owens offered a hand to Amy.

"Amy," she said, "yes."

He bowed slightly and kissed the back of her hand. She gave Rory a surprised and pleased look. When he straightened, he looked at Rory. "I won't bother you any longer," he said, "I just wanted to say thank you; I've always borne in mind what you told me."

"Oh... kay..." Rory said.

"And I wanted to say... I wanted to say, virum amicumque bonum saluto." He proffered a Roman salute to Rory, then a British military salute. "Ma'am," he said to Amy, and offered a pleasant nod.

As the old man disappeared into the crowd, Amy looked at Rory. "What was that all about?"

"I don't know," he said. He stared at the ground. "It was..." He went silent.

"What did he say? That was Latin, wasn't it?"

"Yes. 'I salute a good man and a good friend.'"

"Are you okay?" Amy asked, concerned.

"What?" Rory lifted a hand and felt his cheek. "Am I... why am I crying?" he asked her.

* * *

**Author's Note: I played a bit fast and loose with where and when people are, canonically; and had timelines collapse and fade from people's minds faster than I originally planned them to do. Still; wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey, eh?**

**Nothing more to see here, folks. Move along, now.**

**Move along.**

**Edit 10/12/12: Much thanks to Fawe for the Latin correction!**

**Edit 10/18/12: If you enjoyed this story, please consider reading the sequel, "Life and Times of Alfie Owens."**


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